Rise of the Fallen Prince
by Shadowman 747
Summary: When The Lich King slept, Arthas did destroy Ner'zhul, but not his humanity. The Prince wakes up with no memory of his service under the Lich King. Without the light's guidence, the Fallen Prince strugles to be the righteous hero he once was. With the Scourge out of control, and the Aspect of Death rising from the deeps, Arthas must rise to meet the chalenge before Azaroth is lost.


The Lich King dreamed. But it was more than dreaming. Unknowing to the master of death, he was determining the fate of not only his soul, but the entirety of Azaroth.

* * *

The Lich King trudged through the blizzard, unhindered by the biting frosty wind. A small dwelling came into view. The being couldn't tell what culture the dwelling was from, but he marched towards it.

As he made his way towards it, it came into focus. A tent, made of hides and bone, smoke billowing through a hole in the roof.

Pulling the flap back, the master of death marched in. Heat washed over the death knight, and he was greeted by the sight of a figure hunched over a fire. The figure was large, muscle bound, and it's skin was a sickly green.

"Finally ready to join me, boy?" It was a deep and throaty rumble. Neither party met the other's eyes.

The death god was about to agree, before he saw a sickly figure. A child. So familiar. Golden hair, matted to his head, tangled and deep green eyes, down in defeat. It was himself. The boy looked famished, noble clothes hanging loosely from his form. The child was pathetic, but something stored in the death knight.

In this moment, the lord of the damned knew his fate was in his hands. He could become the Lich King, or he could become a hero. Frostmourne was drawn. But he was unsure where to strike.

The runeblade shook in his palm. "What are you doing, Arthas," The gravely voice of Ner'Zhul shook him from his thoughts. Arthas, that was his name. He was a prince of the people. A champion of Lordaron. But he had thrown it away. Anger seethed in the spirit.

"Ending this," His voice was not his own, echoing in, Ner'Zhul's own blending in for a sickening sound.

Frostmourne arced and met green flesh. The moment the blade touched the old orc's flesh, the being turned to dust, floating up into the fire, spiraling and exiting through the small hole in the roof.

The boy looked to the spirit of death, a small and hopeful smile across his face. It was like the defeated and broken boy finally had something good happen, after years and years of suffering.

Arthas turned to the boy. To himself. Frostmoune did not lower. The boy's hope fell, and he turned his head down, accepting defeat. The death god would smite him down.

The blow never came. And Frostmourne did not feed. The rune blade sunk into the floor, and a leatherclad hand extended into the beaten boy's vision. His eyes turned up. The god of death looked down upon him and spoke two words. These two words changed the fate of Azaroth.

"Join me,"

* * *

Cracks spread across the Frozen Throne. Slowly at first, but spiderwebing out quickly. Two blue glowing orbs pierced through the nether ice, before it all shattered.

Arthas opened his eyes, the blue glow flickering out. Snow greeted him. Northrend. Muradin, where was Muradin? And his expedition?

As he woke, Arthas took note of his surroundings and himself. Ice and snow as far as the eye could see. He was on a spire, a throne of ice, overlooking vast glaciers.

And the blade, wicked and demonic, Arthas knew this blade. Frostmourne. Muradin had lead him to it. Muradin! The dwarf had been struck by ice! But he couldn't remember more. He had touched the blade and then, nothing.

The plate he wore was unfamiliar. But it was evil. The antithesis of anything a paladin of the Silver Hand would wear. Why was he wearing it?

Arthas grew frustrated, he needed to find his expedition, he needed to find Muradin. And Light's Vengeance. He needed to find out where he was.

And so Arthas set out, Frostmourne in hand, to determine his fate, determination set in his green eyes, golden hair splaying behind him like a main of light.

* * *

Sup scrubs, this is my newest project. for those not familiar with me, I tend to do longer projects, that usually don't get finished. I do want to finish this one though. This is the introduction chapter. Most of my chapters tend to range from 3 to 7k words each.

Now what's Arthas to do with no memory beyond touching Frostmourne? Poor guy still thinks Mal'Ganis is his biggest foe. Sucks for him, he's got bigger fish to freeze. Like Deathwing. And the entire Burning Legion.


End file.
